


Which One is Worse

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [26]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Explosives, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD…Migraine| Concussion | BlindnessMalcolm doesn't have the time or inclination to argue so he mumbles, "Migraine," and turns his attention to the stairs he's going to have to make his way up in order to get outside.
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 19
Kudos: 86
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Which One is Worse

It doesn't happen often, thankfully, but when Malcolm gets a migraine, it has a tendency to knock him flat on his back. He's only had maybe five in the last decade — none since he's moved back to New York — and fortunately, they all happened between cases, when he was able to lock himself in his apartment in DC with the lights off and the blinds drawn and a bucket beside his bed.

Of course his luck wouldn't hold forever.

And of course it hits at the worst possible time. Ever.

He should have known better when the hues of the house they were searching became just a little too bright, too vibrant. But he was so focused on reading the clues of their serial bomber's basement workshop that he didn't ascribe any meaning to the vivid cast of his surroundings. 

At least, not until the gnawing ache grows just behind his eyes and he starts to lose his peripheral vision.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, drawing the attention of JT from where he's standing at their suspect's workbench several feet away.

"What's up, dude?" JT asks, his forehead creasing with concern at the unexpected curse that falls from Malcolm's lips. 

"It's nothing," Malcolm hurries to say, attempting to figure out how much time he has before it feels like the world is trying to kill him with lights and sound, and work out a plan to get to Gil's car before it happens. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit." JT's eyes narrow in suspicion as his gaze flits over Malcolm's face. "You're paler than your normal shade of pasty and I don't think I've ever heard you swear before. Spill."

Malcolm doesn't have the time or inclination to argue so he mumbles, "Migraine," and turns his attention to the stairs he's going to have to make his way up in order to get outside.

"You good?" JT asks and Malcolm can hear a genuine note of worry in the simple question. It's funny, Malcolm thinks, how much things have changed between them since that first case when JT wanted to throttle him. "You need a hand getting upstairs?"

Malcolm can only imagine how terrible he must look, eyeing the stairs as if he's preparing for battle. Things are getting bad. Fast. He needs to go lie down. "M'okay."

He takes a shaky step forward, rounding the workbench in the middle of the room.

Then another.

And another

And then…

_click_

It feels like all of the blood in his body drains down to pool at his feet. He knows that sound and it makes him want to vomit.

Pressure-plate.

His head is already starting to pound, a growing pressure cooker that stands a good chance of exploding before the bomb that he's standing on.

"Mother fucker," JT grunts as his head whips towards Malcolm at the sound. "Bro, don't move a muscle."

Frankly, Malcolm doesn't think he could if he wanted to. But he _is_ decidedly worried about his body just giving out on him and collapsing where he stands.

"Mmhmm," Malcolm closes his eyes and steadies himself with a hand on the workbench. He can hear JT carefully moving around him, circling the bench from the other side to come out in front of Malcolm. He's not sure how long he stays like that, but the sounds of JT radioing their predicament to the rest of the team and then checking out the pressure-plate stab into Malcolm's brain as every noise is magnified and amplified and threatens to turn his brain to jelly.

"Okay, man, the good news is that there doesn't look to be any secondary triggers or timers." JT pitches his voice lower, softer, but Malcolm still flinches at the words. "The bad news is that if you step off that plate, the entire house is gonna become nothing more than a crater in the ground."

Perfect, Malcolm thinks to himself. A whimper is all that comes out of his mouth.

"Is there anything I can get for you to help with the migraine while we wait?" JT whispers.

Malcolm sucks in a breath and swallows around the nausea that's bubbling up inside of him. "You," Malcolm murmurs. "Go."

"Sorry bro, that ain't happening." There's an edge of a smile in JT's words that helps Malcolm to relax just a little, though the migraine doesn't seem likely to let up anytime soon. "Just hang in there, okay?"

He'd nod, but he's afraid the motion would be enough to knock him to the floor. He's also worried that if he tries to speak, he'll lose his battle with the nausea that's lurking just below the surface, so he settles for a huff of breath that he hopes JT can decipher as, "I'll hang in there as long as I can but you should leave because this place could blow up any second and you have a new baby at home."

The message, apparently, is lost in translation.

While JT carefully moves to the stairs, it's only to meet an officer who hands off a small case and gives JT some instructions. Then JT is back and quietly laying the case on the workbench, opening it up and pulling out a syringe. 

"Bomb squad is on the way," JT whispers and Malcolm attempts to make a mental note to buy him something expensive when this is all over. 

If he's not dead. 

Though at this point, he's beginning to think that being blown up by a bomb would be moderately less horrible than the unrelenting pain in his head.

"But I'm gonna give you an injection here to help with the migraine, okay?" JT asks. 

Malcolm knows JT is trained in battlefield medicine and doesn't doubt that he was given good instructions on what to do, and, frankly, at this point, if a junkie on the street with a dirty needle offered him a hit of heroin to take off the edge, he'd probably accept it. He hums his agreement then feels a slight pinch — an intramuscular dosage of...he doesn't know or care what — and then he waits.

And eventually, the pain begins to ebb. 

Enough that he's not worried about collapsing, at least, though the dim lighting of the room still feels like razor blades ripping through his eyeballs and slicing through his grey matter. 

Just as the pain becomes something almost manageable, a man in an explosive ordnance suit appears in front of him, shaking JT's hand warmly as they have a brief conversation and then offering a sympathetic smile to Malcolm through the shield of his face mask.

"Hey there, Mr. Bright. I hear you not only have a migraine, but you have a bomb underneath you, as well," Sergeant Poletto says quietly, obviously trying not to add to the pounding in Malcolm's head. "I'm tempted to ask which one is worse, but I think I might already know — and it's not the one that has me out for today's visit."

Malcolm offers a weak but genuine smile, thankful for the man's unflappable demeanour. As the migraine begins to diminish, the reality of his situation becomes painfully apparent and he can feel the burgeoning panic inside of his chest.

"Don't worry, Mr. Bright, I'll have you out of here in no time," Sergeant Poletto says and Malcolm can't help but believe him. He's worked with the man once before and Malcolm knows that he's well versed in explosives removal and disarmament. If anyone can get them out of this alive, it's Sergeant Poletto.

"JT, you should leave," Malcolm says slowly, the words sticking in his mouth as he continues to battle the world's worst headache. While he may have faith in the Sergeant's ability to get them out alive, there's still no sense in risking JT's life unnecessarily. 

JT merely arches an eyebrow and purses his lips, a clear indication that he's not going anywhere.

"You know, I told him that, too," Sergeant Poletto chuckles as he lowers himself to his knees, the movement seeming awkward in the bulky suit but well practiced nonetheless. "But you know Detective Tarmel; stubborn as a mule."

Malcolm smiles at the look JT shoots the man, which Sergeant Poletto is too busy to even appreciate as he examines the bomb at Malcolm's feet.

Time passes unbearably slowly as the Sergeant works and Malcolm follows his directions precisely. There are a handful of times that Malcolm needs to close his eyes and focus his breathing, when it feels like a railroad spike is being driven into his brain and it takes all his willpower just to remain upright, but the Sergeant gives him all the time he needs before moving on to the next step.

It all pays off, and sooner than Malcolm would have expected, he's stepping off the pressure plate on shaky legs while Sergeant Poletto removes the now harmless bomb from its hiding place. Then Malcolm finds himself being led up the stairs, half carried by JT's strong arm around his waist as he leads him directly to the back of the ambulance that's waiting behind the perimeter line.

Malcolm doesn't argue about the IV that's inserted, and happily takes the cold compress that's offered to lay across his forehead and over his eyes. He even lets himself be lowered to the stretcher because the thought of being horizontal is possibly the most appealing idea he could ever imagine.

He makes a mental note to send something extravagant to Sergeant Poletto, as well, and then he lets the painkillers pull him into a blessed oblivion. 

Booby-trapped explosive labs he can handle. 

Migraines...not so much.


End file.
